


blue eyes like mine

by blackeyedblonde



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Hank Anderson, Creampie, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Infertility, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Pregnancy, Tenderness, Trans Connor, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex, reverse au, they're trying to have a baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-05 21:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18374717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/pseuds/blackeyedblonde
Summary: “My mother had blue eyes,” Connor said quietly, looking over at Hank. “If there’s a chance I want our baby to have—you know.”Our baby.Hank’s thirium pump is malfunctioning in split-second intervals quite often these days with Connor saying things like that. He’s considered going in for a biocomponent check but ultimately decided against it. Falling headfirst into deviancy had been a fascinating turn of events, but falling in love had been even more unpredictable than that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lovelylime89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovelylime89/gifts).



> a commissioned gift for the wonderful Hannah J! thank you for your boundless generosity and friendship and patience ❤ 
> 
> also a big S/O to Leo for kindly offering to peer review this for me, u da one! I tried to keep the sexual terminology as basic as possible; Hank and Connor both have their bits referred to as dick/cock, but otherwise any vaginal-derived words are at a minimum outside one use of "cervix," which is for relevant babymaking reasons (wink wonk). it's implied that Connor has struggled with infertility for a while, but it's nothing graphic or dealing with miscarriage; please tread careful as you see fit!

  
  
The process of an android impregnating a human had been mechanically simple, in theory, even if outsiders raised eyebrows at the _ethical efficacy_ of such a thing. Those two words flare up in HK800’s HUD from time to time, blinking there like a crude background process he has to manually shut down. Connor had told that particular doctor to fuck right off and stick their ethical efficacy all the way up their morally upright asshole, none too keen on mincing words, before standing and calmly marching out of the office with Hank in tow by the hand.

Mechanically simple, perhaps, but mentally draining and financially precarious at times. The genetic engineering company had even cut them a deal on samples when the CEO herself passed Connor in reception and recognized him from television. Lieutenant Connor Stern’s big red ice bust of ’33, as it were. The CEO had a sister lost to the stuff. Money suddenly became more of an object than an obstacle and somehow it’d all worked out after that.

After Connor had been cleared with his doctor, they’d sat down with a soft-spoken technician—another android, Hank noted—and gone through each relevant genotype and phenotype one by one. Hank argued that his contribution to this process was mostly unnecessary, considering he couldn’t provide anything genetic to the equation at all, but Connor had insisted. Especially when eye color alleles came into question and Connor didn’t even wait for the technician to finish speaking before he tapped the displayed blue-eyed Punnett square graphic with a middle finger.

“My mother had blue eyes,” he’d said quietly, looking over at Hank. “If there’s a chance I want our baby to have—you know.”

 _Our baby_. Hank’s thirium pump is malfunctioning in split-second intervals quite often these days with Connor saying things like that. He’s considered going in for a biocomponent check but ultimately decided against it. Falling headfirst into deviancy had been a fascinating turn of events, but falling in love had been even more unpredictable than that.

And then there was the fact that making a baby could sometimes be a much more laborious process than the rest of the world would have one believe.

Speaking of biocomponents, the sperm Connor and Hank had agreed on—“It’s jizz, Hank, stop calling it _altered_ _genetic material_ when I’m trying to blow you,” Connor had groaned aloud once—is dwindling away by the day. Hank had carefully installed each little vial containing a full sample nearly four months ago now, standing there in the bathroom with his chassis wide open up to the breastplate while he looked at the potential for life sitting there in his faintly whirring abdomen. They’d used the first one up that very night in a whirlwind frenzy of fucking, and then another one each night thereafter on the particular days marked on Connor’s calendar until Hank began to wonder why none of them were doing what they were designed to do.

Hank insists the problem must be on his end, even if statistically speaking his part of the insemination process is designed to succeed 99.9% of the time. Connor grows more anxious by the day about it, spread too thin and wan in the face. The dark circles under his eyes look worse than ever and each time Hank does a vitals scan he marvels at the limits a human body will push itself beyond its own capacity. Wanting something so desperately has turned his lieutenant into a brittle but still so painfully determined shell.

So there is no baby yet, despite these past several months of trying and a dozen pregnancy tests that turned out negative like clockwork. And there will be one more test tonight, shortly, currently on its way through the front door in a bag Connor’s brought back home from the pharmacy with his monthly prescriptions.

Hank, standing in their bedroom in front of the long mirror by the door, touches the last viable ampoule of sperm he’d been given with a white fingertip and then closes his abdominal panel back up, letting the synth-skin move into place. He absolutely hasn’t told Connor, but he’s been saving it for some weeks now, having quietly manually disconnected the tube from his artificial ejaculate functions and carefully kept the vial chilled using an internal cooling function he’d installed. It won’t last much longer outside a medical-grade deep freeze and Hank thinks about the time ticking away every day.  

It’d been expensive as it was, acquiring this much modified genetic material even with a generous discount. Hank doesn’t want to go through that process and the hormonal changes again for Connor’s sake, emotionally or financially, especially when he’d initially wondered why Connor wanted _his_ help with this in the first place. He’s the one who wasn’t originally built to be a father; he’s the one whose bodily functions or lack thereof have put them on a timer. But another odd turn of deviancy is that he hopes, now, through some twisted knife of empathy that lights up his insides—hopes with all of his artificial being that he’ll know when the moment is right to reconnect that tube and give it one last try.

Connor deserves the world, Hank knows, but the least he can do is help him have a baby. _Their_ baby. It goes without question that he would do anything in his power to give that to him.  

“Hank?” Connor calls from the kitchen, setting down some bags on the counter while Sumo’s tail wags hard enough to beat the cabinet door like a drum. “I’m home.”

Hank walks into the room on bare feet, silent, the cold tile not bothering him in the least even if Connor complains about his cold toes when they’re in bed together. “I’m here,” he says, gently moving to take the canister of coffee grounds from Connor’s hand just as he was reaching to put it in the bread box.

Connor blinks and slumps against the counter, digging around for something else in one of the pharmacy bags. Hank knows it’s the pregnancy test before he sees the box; a cursory bodily functions scan had shown him Connor’s bladder is so full he’s almost in physical pain.

“I’ve got to piss like a racehorse,” he says, ripping into the box and dumping the little plastic insert out in his hand along with the paper leaflet before zipping off down the hall to the bathroom, boot heels clicking the whole way. “Can you feed Sumo, babe? That wet food he likes was on sale this week.”

Hank fishes the can of dog food out the bag and looks down at Sumo panting at him with happily drooping eyes. “This isn’t part of your dietary restriction regimen we spoke about,” he says, arching a silver brow at the St. Bernard. “But I suppose half a can won’t hurt.”

Getting a spoon out of the dish rack, Hank goes about mixing some of the wet food with Sumo’s normal kibble. It’s some fancy brand for big breeds, low on grain and high on protein, meant to be better for an aging dog’s metabolism. Sumo isn’t as young and spry as he was when Hank first met him years ago, so grey in the face now that there are white hairs sprouting around his eyes; sometimes it’s difficult to process how quickly companion animals age compared to their human counterparts.

After setting Sumo’s dish down and idly watching the dog chow down on dinner, Hank attunes his hearing and waits for Connor to flush the toilet and eventually emerge from the bathroom. He has timed the testing process several times before and already the average number of minutes has been surpassed.

Odd.

For a brief moment that ray of deep inner hope flares in his chest and he strides quickly for the bathroom. Perhaps the last time had worked after all. Maybe his fertilization process had finally aligned with Connor’s cycle and they’d made a baby.

A _baby._

Hank pushes into the cracked bathroom door, LED a staccato shift back and forth between bright blue and fiery red, and feels his synthetic pulse skip a beat when he finds Connor slumped on the floor in tears. 

“Lieutenant?” Hank says through a startled burst of his voice box before he can stop himself, immediately wedging his broad frame into the bathroom to kneel down next to Connor. He runs a vitals scan and everything is normal, save for Connor’s elevated stress levels and the tears streaking his face. “Connor,” he says, softer this time. “What happened?”

“I can’t keep doing this,” Connor sobs, voice already hoarse and wrecked in his throat. “I can’t keep hoping for something that won’t happen. I swear it kills me a little more every time.”

The discarded pregnancy test is on the tile floor by the trash can. Hank looks at the negative result but doesn’t move to touch it; he feels a lick of anger roil deep in his chassis. Not at Connor, not even at himself, but at something bigger than the both of them he can’t quite place.

All the same, he sits on the floor and gathers Connor into his arms, tucking his Lieutenant under his chin while he kisses dark curls and shushes him. “I’m afraid my being an android has complicated this more than is desirable or necessary,” he says gently, thumbing at some of the tears at the corners of Connor’s eyes. “I was afraid of that in the beginning but didn’t have the heart to tell you otherwise.”

“Why?” Connor croaks, almost feverish in Hank’s arms from crying so hard. “You should tell me everything, Hank.”

Hank sighs and can’t help the tiny smile tugging on his mouth. “Once you get the inclination to do something neither hell nor high water will stop you, as I believe the saying goes.” 

Connor snorts out a weak laugh but still clings to Hank, cheek pressed against his chest. “The ol’ Stern Stubbornness isn’t helping me this time,” he says, and then his voice crumples again, twisted around some aching thing caught in the back of his throat. “I—I think I’m broken.”  

“You aren’t,” Hank says immediately, even while Connor shakes and cries against him. “You’re one of the most resilient human beings I have ever known or met, Connor.”

“I want this so much,” Connor says around a sob. “I wanted us to have a family, but maybe it’s too late for me—maybe this is something I can’t give us.”

Just hearing the pain in Connor’s voice is enough to make Hank’s chest cavity hurt with some phantom feeling he never would’ve known before deviancy. There is both good and bad in the freedom of breaking outside your programming—the beauty of hope and love coupled with how much it truly hurts to suffer loss.

“You and Sumo are the only family I have, but you are also the only one I’ll ever want for,” Hank says quietly, dropping a kiss to the top of Connor’s head. “It would make me infinitely happy to help you raise a child, Connor, but even if that never were to happen—you are more than enough for me.”

Despite how much he means those words, a strange electric current runs through Hank’s limbs at the admission. He and Connor aren’t married or bound by law; Connor always said it didn’t matter to him either way, some people are made for marriage and others simply aren’t, but Hank has been planning on changing that somewhere in the foreseeable future when the opportunity presents itself.

When his thoughts have time to wander as of late he sometimes finds himself constructing images of Connor in a gauzy white shirt with the smallest, barely-perceptible swell under the fabric. Laughing, happy, healthy and pink in the cheeks—handsome and radiant. The child still unseen by everybody else, but Hank knows it’s there because he knew the moment its heart began beating. 

Deviancy has made him far too soft, but then again, he has no interest in changing that.

Connor’s tears have slowed and he’s no longer crying, only quietly sniffling where he’s still tucked under Hank’s chin. “I don’t really have anybody but you and Sumo either, Hank,” Connor whispers. “I love Niles, he’s my little brother, but—I can’t raise a family with him. At least not how I’d want to.”

Hank nods in understanding. Even when he was still a machine he understood the fundamental difference between a pride of lions functioning as a family unit and then how a swan will only take one mate in its entire lifetime, dying alone if its other half ever perished.

He does not want that fate for Connor, nor does he want to be an ultimatum—but so long as there is still some life force in his manmade body, even if it were his one and final swan song, he wants to be the one who provides for Connor’s needs and desires.

“What do you want, darling?” Hank asks in a low voice, pushing some damp hair off Connor’s forehead. It’s an open question with a thousand different possible outcomes Hank can narrow down to a half-dozen, and he’s still not quite expecting the tired laugh and the tender press of lips under the hinge of his jaw.

“Whatever you’ll give me,” Connor says tiredly, sincere as anything, palm pressed over the outline of Hank’s thirium pump. “But first we need to get off the goddamn floor.”

“Agreed,” Hank says, gathering the Lieutenant securely into his arms before standing in almost one fluid motion, none at all inconvenienced by Connor’s weight or long legs. He has carried him out of much worse than a chilled bathroom before. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” Connor says, a little flushed in the face even as he loops his arms around Hank’s neck and lets himself be carried. “Think I just wanna go to bed.”

Bed, as a place, can be as delightful as it is dangerous. Hank had learned this human truth within a fortnight of becoming Connor’s live-in lover, many moons ago. Bed is where he and Connor strip down to nothing and press themselves into one body, lost in some endless whirlwind of give and take. Bed is also where Connor tends to go during the worst bouts of his depression, spending any days off from work lying in the dark room while the sun shines outside.

Hank carefully sidesteps around Sumo where he’s sprawled in the path between the bathroom and the master bedroom, already snoring now that he’s had his supper. Connor’s fingertips play with the fine strands of hair at the nape of Hank’s neck, not pulling it from its tie but clearly wanting to. When they enter the cool bedroom Hank eases Connor down onto the bed with care and presses a kiss to his hairline.

“I’ll go put the rest of the groceries away,” he says, moving to straighten back up, but Connor’s hand lands in the crease of his elbow, fingertips skimming down the corded inner part of Hank’s right forearm.

“Stay?” he asks, a soft question mark there at the end of the word when there doesn’t need to be. As if Hank would deny his Lieutenant such a request.

Connor’s hopeful eyes are swollen from crying, face blotchy and tired. Hank loves him dearly. It doesn’t need to be displayed in red across his HUD for him to know that.

“Hold on,” he says, pressing a thumb into Connor’s palm like a promise before leaving the room. His LED spins yellow for just one moment before returning to serene sapphire. “I’ll be right back.”

He returns to the deserted bathroom and doesn’t bother with the light above the vanity. Late evening slips in through the window above the shower, golden-orange filtering in through the frosted glass like crushed marigold, and a slant of that dusk cuts across his chest and shoulder as he kneels to pick up the discarded pregnancy test. His scans reveal the usual telltale traces of urine and none of the necessary chorionic gonadotropin hormone as he throws it away and stands again to briefly wash his hands.

Hank looks at himself in the mirror, staring into his own blue eyes for a long beat, and considers the choices laid out in front of him alongside several preconstructions of how the rest of this evening will go.

_Connor goes to sleep peacefully right away—probability 17%. Connor sleeps fitfully and experiences another emotional episode—probability 24%. Connor remains awake and initiates intercourse from wanting tactile comfort—probability 59%._

Hank only needs a fraction of a second to decide. Lifting his shirt, he touches the panel on his abdomen and waits for it to open with a faint hiss. The disconnected tube fits back into its intended place seamlessly, all systems online and ready. Hank runs one last diagnostic to check the viability of the ampoule and stops his breathing simulation until the result flashes across his field of vision, overlaid there against the bathroom mirror.

He turns off the internal cooling subroutine. His systems won’t be needing it any longer after tonight.

Back down the hall, past a slumbering Sumo, into the carpeted bedroom, gently shutting the door with a click. The shades are drawn and it’s dark; Hank considers turning on the bedside lamp if only to see Connor in the golden glow, though he would much rather see him lit up by the sunset happening outside.

“What’s wrong?” Connor asks, watching Hank stand there from where he’s curled on his side, arm tucked under a pillow.

“Nothing,” Hank says, footfalls carrying him over to where he can slide onto the mattress, sitting in the crescent of space made by the curve of Connor’s body. “I wish you wouldn’t always lay here in the dark.”

Connor is quiet for a moment, fingers idly tracing the cotton seam of Hank’s lounge pants. “It keeps me from getting migraines,” he says, which is only a half-truth. He swears and squints one eye shut when Hank twists on the table lamp anyway, defiant.

“A little warmth suits you, Lieutenant,” Hank says, reaching out to touch the curl of dark hair on Connor’s forehead, pushing it back with nimble fingers. He doesn’t say anything more and they simply watch one another, gazes intertwined and mingling, neither one wanting to blink and look away first. Hank leans in nonetheless, bracing a hand in the pillow under Connor’s head as he bows over to brush a kiss against the softness of his mouth.

“Are you still amenable to whatever I’d like to give you?” he asks, lips just barely skimming Connor’s with the question. Hank draws back enough to look into amber brown eyes, still red-rimmed from crying but now with dark pupils blown wide from something else.

“Yes,” Connor rasps, shadowed there under the cast of Hank’s broad shoulders. He bites his lip and casts his eyes to the side before looking back up, the desire and love burning there alongside a delicate thread of pain that won’t be hidden from view. It makes Hank ache by proxy, the rawness of that look. But if Connor makes himself this vulnerable to him, Hank will take his lover in his hands and hold him there. The fragility of the unbidden human soul never ceases to amaze him.

Or maybe that’s just Connor. 

“In that case,” Hank says, pressing another kiss to the hinge of Connor’s jaw this time, his voice a satin-covered rumble in the Lieutenant’s ear, “I think I’d like to make love to you now.”

The effect of his words is instantaneous—Connor flushes pink as a wild rose while his heart rate kicks up a notch and his breathing falters in his chest. He claims to hate when Hank talks like that but still melts at the implication alone.

“Do you have to say it like that,” Connor mumbles, squirming slightly where he’s caged by Hank’s arms. “Like we’re in some historical bodice ripper novel.”

“It _is_ what I intend to do,” Hank replies, and then shifts all his weight onto the bed so they’re lying side by side. His fingers immediately explore under the hem of Connor’s untucked dress shirt, raising chills when they caress the skin on his stomach, a touch softer than it was when they first met now that Connor’s eating more than one square meal and a carton of cigarettes every other day. Giving up the smokes has made him plumper in places that delight Hank’s senses to no end.

He pops the clasp on Connor’s slacks with one deft hand but then skims his fingers upward again, working open shirt buttons with ease. When the starched cotton falls open and reveals Connor’s pale chest underneath, dotted with moles and silvery scars alike, Hank hums in appreciation and takes in the sight beneath the sparse fan of his lashes.

“Beautiful,” he says, thumbing over one of Connor’s hard nipples before raising up again to move further down the bed, dropping a kiss next to Connor’s navel as he goes. He wastes no time with teasing or fanfare, simply grips the waistband of Connor’s slacks and tugs them and his briefs down over his hips in one easy movement.

The sight that greets Hank makes his mouth automatically fill with synthetic saliva and analysis fluid. Connor sighs out something sleepy even as his dick throbs, spreading his legs wider in invitation after his pants are tossed on the floor. He doesn’t touch himself, simply lays there and pushes a hand down his belly until Hank reaches up to take it, their fingers threaded together as he situates himself between Connor’s thighs and drinks from his body like a man dying in the desert.

Hank sucks on the nub of Connor’s cock first, humming in pleasure as the tip of his tongue traces the underside. He has brought off Connor like this countless times before until the Lieutenant cries out and bucks against his face, but tonight there’s more that needs his attention. Hank explores lower, using the flat of his tongue to part through velvet folds and find Connor’s front hole, already slick as hot satin.

“Oh Hank,” Connor sighs again, squeezing his hand tight. “That’s good, babe.”

Hank laps against Connor’s entrance, reveling in the unique taste of him here, and pauses his breathing subroutine as he crushes his nose against Connor’s mound and pushes the full length of his tongue in as deep as it will go.

Connor gasps and mewls like a kitten, thighs snapping shut to lock around Hank’s head. Hank doesn’t stop and only grips Connor’s ass with his free hand, letting the Lieutenant fuck himself down on his face as he tongues one of the sensitive spots deeper inside. Connor’s hard cock twitches and when his stomach clenches beneath their clasped hands Hank feels his release, hot walls pulsing as Connor’s body tries to milk his tongue for something it can’t give him.

When Connor is gently panting and tugging on Hank’s hand to pull him back up he withdraws his face from between Connor’s thighs, beard wet now with bittersweet slick, and wipes it across his own shirtsleeve before climbing up the bed. He kisses Connor, knowing it’s welcome, and pushes his tongue into his Lieutenant’s mouth to share the taste.

Connor moans long and low, the sweetest sound to Hank’s ears, and lets his lashes flutter shut. When he has to pull back to draw in a shuddering breath Hank commits the moment to memory, soaking in the sight of Connor already partially undone and still so lovely.  

“You’re far from broken,” Hank says abruptly, voice a deep hum between them. Connor’s eyes remain closed but his mouth quivers just a bit, more so when Hank thumbs across his bottom lip as if to still the tremble there. “I would go to the ends of my ability and then beyond that for you, Connor.”

Connor’s voice shakes under the determination Hank still hears there, clear as a bell. “I know, and that scares me sometimes,” he says, eyes opening again to find Hank’s face. He scoots forward and Hank wordlessly lifts an arm, tucking Connor there against his chest.

“I love you so much,” Connor whispers somewhere against the neck of Hank’s t-shirt, back arching into Hank’s touch when a broad hand smoothes down to the curve of his spine. “I just wish this had been easier for us.”

“It can be,” Hank says, dropping another kiss into Connor’s hair. His fingers explore lower, tracing the seam of Connor’s ass until they dip back into the warm wetness between his legs. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

Connor whines a little, clinging to Hank’s shoulders while he pushes back to try and get more of his fingers. “You always do,” he says, and then gasps in building frustration. “God, I need your cock.”

Hank smiles, briefly pressing his thick middle finger inside Connor’s hole before pulling it back out again. “Good boy,” he rumbles, and then withdraws his hand all the way before sitting up. “I’m going to give it to you.”

Undressing with measured efficiency, Hank removes his shirt and lounge pants and throws them to the floor for now. Connor is still wearing his shirt and his socks and garters; Hank leaves him in the shirt but pops the silver buckles on the stays, rolling the dress sock down Connor’s calf and off his foot before kissing the pale arch there.

“None of that,” Connor grouses, chest flushed a burning shade of crimson while his leg is held in the air, and Hank gives him a wicked smile before doing the same thing on the other side. He mouths at the indentations the garters left in Connor’s calves for good measure before settling himself in the spread between his Lieutenant’s thighs.

Connor sighs, content, eyes gone warm and heavy-lidded as Hank’s familiar bulk rests there against him. His sleepy comfort despite the evening’s onslaught of emotions is a good sign, and Hank immediately knows that what they both need is the closeness over anything else—fucking made slow and deep, a steady and relentless tide.

Hank takes his cock in hand and drags the tip though Connor’s slick folds before pushing inside, sinking in to the hilt on the first slow thrust. Connor makes a tiny sound high in his throat as they fit together, one heel already pressing into the curve of Hank’s ass.

“Hank,” he says, wrapping both arms around Hank’s neck to hold him close, face turned into the junction between his jaw and shoulder. “ _Please_.”

“Hold on to me, darling,” Hank says, and then rolls his hips back before thrusting in even deeper than before. Connor’s hole stretches around his girth but takes it with ease, sinfully hot as Hank grinds into him without hurry. He leaves sweet kisses on Connor’s temple and wherever his lips land, reaching down to spread a palm under Connor’s ass to hitch him up further with unbending strength.

Connor wraps his legs around Hank’s waist and curls his fingers in the loose waves at the nape of Hank’s neck, holding on like he was told. His soft sighs and moans urge Hank along, carrying the both of them as tension unwinds from Connor’s muscles but coils deep in his belly.

“Fuck me harder,” Connor whines, tilting his hips up into Hank’s steady thrusts. He’s quiet for a moment, panting hot and heavy in the space between them, and then tugs Hank’s hair just hard enough to pull his head back so his Adam’s apple stands out along the line of his throat.

“I want your baby, HK,” Connor says, gasping when Hank’s hips stutter and thrust in hard enough to jerk him up the bed. “Knock me up, babe—c’mon, just like that.”

Hank doesn’t drill into him any harder yet, maintaining the punishing slowness of his cock dragging in and out of Connor’s slick hole. “I often think of you carrying our child,” he says, voice modulator steady as a metronome in Connor’s ear. “Your heavy belly beneath my hands, how you’ll look riding me from above—so beautiful, Connor. Strong and radiant and perfect.”

“O- _oh_ , Hank,” Connor sobs, all attempts at any dirty talk now scattered to the wind. His curls are damp and in a mess on the pillow, cheeks flushed and mouth bitten pink. When a tear gathers at the corner of his eye and streaks down into his hair Hank only follows it with his tongue, catching it in a kiss he presses to Connor’s heated skin.

“You’ll make a wonderful father to the little one,” he murmurs, and then reaches down between them to take Connor’s dick between his thumb and forefinger, the friction there already tight between their bellies. Connor bucks and cries out when he feels Hank take him in hand, inside him and all around him at once. He’s shaking now, face streaked with tears, chanting Hank’s name between heaving breaths.

“I love you, Connor,” Hank says, sensing his own ironclad resolve unraveling as he tries not to become overcome with feeling. “Let go, darling—take it all from me.”

If Connor wasn’t already lying down Hank knows he’d fold and buckle in his arms like a wooden doll with broken joints. With one more purposeful thrust Hank jams his cock as deep as it’ll go without hurting his Lieutenant, something he’s long since calculated and committed to permanent memory, and groans when he feels his cockhead meet the entrance of Connor’s cervix.

His one last conscious action is to send a pulsing vibration through his cock, the thickness of it flush with every erogenous spot inside Connor’s body. Hank waits until Connor lets out a wet, gasping sob and screams before he allows himself to let go, spilling his seed as deep inside that fluttering heat as he possibly can. His biocomponent pulses again and again, wrung dry by the tight clench of Connor’s body as it’s filled up with Hank’s release.

They lay together while Connor’s breathing slowly settles and calms, Hank’s cock still plunged deep inside even as semen begins to leak from Connor’s hole and streak down the curve of his ass until it dampens the sheets. Hank will clean this up later, after he cleans up Connor and himself, but for now he has no desire to move beyond reaching up to touch the drying wetness on Connor’s face.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs, sweetly kissing the corner of Connor’s mouth, unable to stop himself from peppering another few kisses there when he feels Connor’s tiny smile. “You are absolutely divine.”

“Bet you say that to all the boys,” Connor murmurs, though his eyes are brimming with nothing but adoration. “I’m fine, Hank. Fucked the hell out, thank God—but I’m good.”

Hank hums and shifts ever so slightly, briefly preconstructing the best way to stay inside Connor’s body while also shifting into a more comfortable position. He holds Connor close, gathered against his chest, and slowly maneuvers them both onto their sides, gently coaxing one of Connor’s thighs around his hips to keep their bodies joined together. Hank’s cock doesn’t go soft until he wants it to, and for the moment he wants to stay like this, slotted in where he belongs.

“Do you think it worked?” Connor asks tiredly, sad in a way, but still delicate as moth wings where it lands against Hank’s shoulder. “I wish I knew right when it happened.”

Hank doesn’t know yet, but he hopes. He looks forward to the moment he can hold a hand over Connor’s belly and sense the new life slowly stirring inside. If his sentience and sophistication as an advanced android model grants him anything in this life, he hopes it’s that.

“It’s too soon to tell,” Hank says softly, skimming the pads of his fingers over Connor’s shoulders and back until his whole hand has reverted to its natural white chassis underneath. “But perhaps so.”

He keeps Connor cradled in his arms, watching his dark lashes dip lower and lower as he slowly drifts off. And perhaps later this evening he’ll wake again and Hank will still be sheathed inside him, able to rock into him just like this, but for now he lets himself idly think of a nameless child growing up tall and strong and handsome like the father who carried them. Maybe with blue eyes, maybe without.

They’ll just have to wait and see.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER: it works this time ❤
> 
> follow me on twitter over at @honkforhankcon, I may thread about this little family in the future :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a soft epilogue, as requested by my peeps on twitter ❤ There's a little bit of blood; Connor cuts his finger and they have a small scare with spotting, but rest assured, we have earned that happy ending :)

  
The waiting part is never easy.

Technically speaking, there’s no need for Connor to keep buying pregnancy test kits from the pharmacy—if he asked, Hank could take a trace urine or blood sample and have the result prepared at a moment’s notice. Hank brought this up once and then not again when Connor’s face went ashen and he said, dangerously slow, “You’ve analyzed urine samples…in your mouth?”

The HK800 units routinely autoclave their oral orifice every stasis period, but Hank doesn’t push the issue and Connor buys one last pregnancy test, yet unused, that sits behind the mirrored door on the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. It seems to pull light and gravity toward it like some kind of black hole, drawing Connor’s eye every time he reaches for his toothbrush or razor, and Hank wonders if this is what dread feels like.

He mentally scours every website, online text, and medical database until he knows what may be the full scope of human gestation from conception to birth. He’s carefully documented Connor’s ovulation cycles and watches each new day come and go without change. Connor is Lieutenant Stern at work, full of brass and bright and only a little reckless. At home he drinks his standard three cups of coffee black with two sugars, wears the same hole-ridden Rob Zombie t-shirt to bed, and still wakes up with some of the wildest bedhead Hank’s ever seen.

Oddly enough, Connor decides to roast brussel sprouts about nine days after they used up the last ampoule of modified genetic material.

He’s standing in the kitchen on bare feet, chopping vegetables with some ridiculous knife while he sings along with an older song on the radio system—some racket Hank would rather not devote any processing power to, and it’s for that reason he’s quietly turned down his audio receptors more so than usual while he brushes out Sumo’s coat on the living room floor.

The dog is in pure bliss, tongue lolled out, sighing with each stroke of the boar bristles across his side. Hank never would’ve thought of himself as a so-called “dog person,” but taking care of Sumo is relaxing in its routine objective. The St. Bernard is easy to please and Hank takes some deeper pride in his health and wellness—a mission with simple and fulfilling rewards.

Hank focuses narrowly on Sumo’s sleek coat, the glide of the brush, the dog’s warmth radiating under his hands, not listening to anything but his content grunts. It’s for this reason he doesn’t catch the first gasp and swear that comes out of Connor’s mouth in a hiss, and then the clatter of steel on tile as the knife bounces once and skitters across the kitchen floor.

 _“Fuck!”_ Connor says again, louder this time, and then Hank is on his feet and across the room in about three long strides. He watches Connor get the whole roll of paper towels bloody as he tries to rip one off and doesn’t need to reconstruct the scene to know that the lieutenant has sliced the tip of his finger off.

“Let me see,” Hank says, leaving the knife where it is for now so he can wrap the paper towel around Connor’s finger to slow the bleeding. There’s errant crimson droplets spattered on the cutting board and the floor and it takes Hank a moment to remember they’re not working a crime scene.

“I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks,” Connor says, holding pressure on his finger while he watches Hank reach into an overhead cabinet for bandages. When the android comes back, LED cycling yellow, he sidesteps the blood in the floor and gently nudges Connor against the counter by the sink to remove the paper towel.

Hank holds Connor’s hand under the faucet, letting cool water run over it with a tiny dash of soap, and then analyzes the slice as fresh blood wells up from the cut all over again. “It’s a deep laceration, but not enough to warrant stitches,” he says quietly, and then promptly brings Connor’s finger up to his sterile mouth to suck it clean.

Connor makes some undignified sound between a squeak and a cough, jolting with a tiny tremor as Hank takes his middle finger up to the second knuckle and then brings it back out again. Hank’s HUD automatically prompts him to run an analysis but he pauses it while he rinses Connor’s finger again and then bandages it with a square of gauze, wrapping the tip with care.

“That’s one way to kiss it better,” Connor murmurs, a touch flushed in the cheeks, but he doesn’t complain otherwise while the line of his throat bobs some in place. Hank hums in agreement and then goes to retrieve the knife and start cleaning up the mess on the floor, and when he reactivates the cursory sample analysis on the blood in his mouth he nearly drops the knife again.

 _DNA SAMPLE PROVIDED: FRESH_  
_WBC COUNT—6.7_  
_RBC COUNT—4.51_  
_HEMOGLOBIN—14.1_  
_PLATELET COUNT—221_  
  
_LAB PLEASE ADVISE: TRACE AMOUNTS OF HUMAN CHORIONIC GONADOTROPIN DETECTED. CONDUCT FURTHER TESTS TO DETERMINE GESTATION._

Hank looks up at Connor with his LED pulsing red, blinking needlessly, and wonders if he’s given himself away. But Connor is picking through brussel sprouts with his good hand, rinsing them under the faucet before tossing them onto a baking sheet with some olive oil. Back to business, none the wiser.

If his thirium pump doesn’t burst out of his chassis it’ll be a technological miracle. Hank wants to laugh, maybe even cry—there’s nothing but the barest beginnings of a cellular process happening inside Connor, still so new and small that it wouldn’t be detectable by one of the plastic home tests, but it’d worked. They’d done it.

Connor’s pregnant.

Hank opens his mouth, modulator poised and ready for _something_ , and then Sumo lumbers into the kitchen to start slurping from his water bowl and Connor is singing along to the next song on the satellite radio, swaying his hips a little in place while he seasons his goddamned brussel sprouts. Happy for the moment despite his sliced fingertip—unburdened and unworried, and Hank wants nothing more than to keep him that way.

He asks himself if there’s any possibility the system readout could’ve been a misfire, some fluke of the analysis process, but then again Hank’s never had that result show up with any other DNA sample before. He wants to believe it so desperately that the wanting turns to a shallow pang of doubt in his mind.

“Can you set a timer for about fifteen minutes, babe?” Connor asks, brushing his hand across Hank’s stomach as he passes to go get something from the fridge. “I don’t want these to burn on one side.”

It’s too soon to put premature hope in the lieutenant’s mind, Hank tells himself. There’s no reason to make him worry or afraid this early, especially when the first few weeks and months of pregnancy are so unbelievably fragile. He does another scan and doesn’t detect any second heartbeat despite being well aware gestation is nowhere near far enough along to find one yet.

Hank sets the timer for fifteen minutes and makes a silent vow to wait.

 

* * *

 

Connor bristles around the would-be start of his cycle—a full-body coil of tension, all sharp elbows and hard eyes when he walks through the bullpen. Not rude or cruel, but absolutely a man on the edge. Nearly two weeks have passed since that night in the kitchen and Hank still detects trace levels of hCG in Connor’s system but hasn’t dared breathe a word.

The pregnancy test in the medicine cabinet is still untouched, and when Connor finds spots of blood in his underwear one Friday morning Hank tells himself with a solemn, heavy heart that it was for the best he waited. It’s better this way—better that he didn’t have to watch the hope die in Connor’s lovely eyes.

He runs a vitals scan on the lieutenant and finds everything normal, at least on a physical level. The plum shadows that hang under Connor’s eyes as he goes to work with nothing in his stomach but coffee speak for themselves, and when he comes home again that night and doesn’t even bother with taking his shoes or shoulder holster off before collapsing on the sofa, Hank figures the weekend ahead may be a long one.

Sometimes their department shift schedules don’t align, but Hank makes a mental note to email Captain Fowler and request he works with Connor as much as possible. To keep an eye on his health, one, but to also keep him from surging back into anything…reckless.

They have something of a routine on nights like these, when Connor doesn’t want to put forth any more energy into being a human: grilled cheese, chicken noodle soup, and a half-hour of shitty television until Hank will come over and undo the laces on his boots and the buckle on his holster before guiding him off the couch.

All the rest is a wordless understanding: Hank will run the hot water in the bathroom and pull the tap so the overhead faucet beats the bottom of the tub in a heavy spray. Connor will undress one piece of clothing at a time, skin looking a little clammy in the bathroom lights, and then hiss once he steps under the shower. Hank will be waiting in their room with a shirt and some soft pajama pants laid out on the bedspread when he comes back wearing nothing but a towel, all damp curls and the smell of Irish Spring.

Sure as anything, Connor comes back in still speckled with water droplets, shivering some in the cooler air. Hank sits on the edge of the bed and holds out his sweats, watching the towel drop to the floor as Connor steps in each leg and tightens the drawstring. When he looks up Hank is already holding the shirt up, waiting until Connor sighs and ducks down so he can tug it over his head.

“You don’t have to dress me, y’know,” Connor mumbles, though he stays standing there between the spread of Hank’s knees and cradles his face close to his belly. Hank hums and brings his hands up to rest against the dip of Connor’s lower back, content to have the lieutenant’s fingers in his hair and his cheek flush to warm skin and soft cotton. He runs one last vitals scan all the same, just to be sure, and in that moment he finds not one healthy heartbeat—but two.

Connor must sense the way his whole body stiffens because his fingers pause in Hank’s hair, something odd touching his voice on one side. “Hank?” he says, eyes widening as the android turns and presses his ear against Connor’s abdomen.

“Connor,” he says in an unexpected rasp, LED cycling through every color within the next second, _redyellowblue_ and back again. Hank can’t believe it, but every fiber and moving current in him wants to. “I can hear it. So small, but it’s there—”

“What?” Connor says, already curving over to grip Hank’s shoulders like his knees won’t hold his weight anymore. “You can hear what?” 

Hank smiles up at him, eyes full of the most wonder Connor’s probably ever seen there. “The baby,” he says, plain as day. “Our baby.”

Connor’s knees do give out, then, but when he slumps down Hank is there to catch him, holding him close. They are both quiet for a lingering moment stretched into a small eternity, only the faint sound of the heater kicking on in the other room, and then Connor’s voice is asking, softly hoarse, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Hank says. Every time he does another scan it’s there, sure and steady as anything. “Yes, darling,” he says a second time, elated, kissing Connor’s face even when there’s salty wetness there.

“Our baby,” Connor keeps saying, crying openly now despite the smile on his face, laughing and hiccupping in Hank’s arms. “Oh my God, Hank, a _baby_.”

Later, when they’ve both calmed down and climbed into bed, Hank will replay the audio for Connor, boosting up the sound several dozen times so it’s faintly discernible by the human ear. He’s a miracle of modern technology some would say, beautifully bastardized to walk and talk like a human others would insist, but there’s nothing artificial about the tiny life they’re listening to.

Connor sleeps soundly that night the whole way through. Hank listens to the gentle sound of his breathing and the two rhythmic heartbeats before he drifts off into stasis, comforted by the sound more than he thought possible. This is only the beginning, but he knows that if everything goes well, this will be the most important mission of his life.

 

* * *

 

In late summer there is a wedding, small and simple, as quaint and quiet as such a thing can be. Hank has never been much of one for parties, but nothing about the small gathering with friends and family bores him. His eyes are only ever on Connor, and all throughout the evening they do not stray.

Part of Hank’s preconstructed daydream from before comes true—there is a white linen shirt and the swell of Connor’s belly underneath, grown round enough now that it brushes Hank’s own stomach when they stand close to dance, hands intertwined, slowly swaying back and forth to the music. Connor’s handsome, radiant, all glossy curls and warm laughter. Hank cannot yet believe he’s allowed to call him his husband.  

When the guests go home and the night grows long, Hank will take his groom home and they’ll undress by golden lamplight again, unhurried, no need to rush now that they’ve got all the time in the world. Connor’s body is still strong and muscular but gone softer over the past few months; Hank holds his heavy belly while he sinks down onto his cock to ride him, in stark awe—of Connor, of their gold wedding bands catching in the light, of the baby, of everything.

When autumn comes in a few months, so will their son. Hank talks to him that night in the dark, kissing Connor’s belly before murmuring softly there. The baby kicks from time to time, shifting around as if to lean toward the sound of his father’s voice.

“I would obviously be happy either way, but perhaps you will have brown eyes like your daddy, Cole,” Hank says thoughtfully, envisioning another image of the future that lies ahead of them. “Or maybe even blue eyes like mine.”

 


End file.
